In Noctem
by Leigh Adams15
Summary: While on Draco's arm, Pansy discovers a nasty suprise.


**Title**: In Noctem (1/1)  
**Author**: Leigh Adams  
**Characters**: Ron Weasley/Pansy Parkinson  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Word Count**: 1,982  
**Summary**: While on Draco's arm, Pansy discovers a nasty surprise.  
**Author's Notes**: I would like the record to state that I _tried_ to leave this wish alone. It just kept coming back to taunt me, though, so I had to give in and write it. This was written for a dear friend of mine as part of the Summer Activity at the LiveJournal community HP Wishes. She requested Ron/Pansy with "Don't choose her. Choose me," as the prompt. What a coincidence that this prompt is a reverse of a former prompt given to me by the lovely Seraph…

* * *

"You look terrible."

With a delicate snarl, Pansy glanced over at her companion. "That's sweet of you, Draco, but don't say it unless you really mean it."

Her companion was unperturbed by Pansy's acidic retort, and he gave a mere shrug of his shoulders as he took a sip of his champagne. "Just making an observation, Pans."

"Yes, well, keep them to yourself," she snipped sharply. Her Malandrino gown swirled around her feet as she moved towards him and plucked a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. It steadied her, having something in her hand to hold onto, to focus on. It helped her forget where they were.

Every year on May 3rd, the day after the Battle at Hogwarts, the Ministry held a commemorative gala. The official premise was to "_celebrate those who gave their lives so that we might enjoy ours_." In _actuality_, it was nothing more than an excuse for the Ministry to siphon even more money from those whose families had sided against the Order.

After the war, Lucius and Narcissa had retired to their villa in the south of France, leaving Draco as the head of the Malfoy family in England. As he and his father had escaped any serious consequences following the fall of Voldemort, Draco- at the ripe age of twenty-four- made it a point to attend the gala every year. Money still talked, and the Malfoys had enough of it to keep several ears in their pockets.

This year, Draco had shown up at Parkinson Manor- unannounced, mind you- and proclaimed that _she_ was to be his escort to this year's gala.

Needless to say, Pansy had not been amenable to his plan, and the broken vases that littered the foyer and library spoke volumes to her contempt.

Her old friend had not been fazed, however, and he'd strode past her fuming form straight up the stairs to her bedroom. By the time she had recovered the ability to move and had caught up to him, he had already laid out a ball gown, clutch, shoes and jewelry.

She'd nearly lit him on fire at that, but the promise of Louboutin shoes and Prada handbags- as many as she liked- soothed the raging beast inside somewhat, and it was with a resigned air that Pansy skulked towards the bathroom- after demanding a decanter of whiskey- to begin preparing herself for the evening's charade.

Now that she was here, it was becoming even more evident that she would need copious amounts of champagne to keep her from burning the ballroom down around their ears. They had arrived over an hour ago, and Pansy had yet to see or speak to someone who didn't wish her dead.

Conversations with Draco were cordial enough. Despite the taint to his family's name, he was still a source of revenue for the Ministry, and none of the officials in attendance were stupid enough to snub him.

Pansy, though, was anathema. It didn't matter to those present that the Ministry still collected reparations from her estate. She had been tried and convicted of Dark activities _despite_ the fact that she'd never participated in any. Demagoguery was rarely known for common sense, after all.

It was the reason she avoided occasions such as this. She was accustomed to being treated as a woman of highest society, the daughter of two of the oldest and most noble Pureblooded lines in Europe, _not_ as a common criminal. She wanted nothing more than to hex the entire lot of them; blood traitors, Mudbloods and Ministry officials alike.

Only Draco's hand at the small of her back and the years of social niceties kept her from actually following through on her urges.

Once the Undersecretary for International Magical Cooperation had _finally_ taken leave, Pansy sniffed and fixed her friend with a pointed look. "Draco, why am I here? You are not in need of female companionship, if the looks you've received from Astoria Greengrass are any indication. You do not need me on your arm."

Draco's expression was one of polite amusement and his grey eyes could not hide his mirth. "Need? No, but you are my dear old friend, and I do enjoy your company so."

Pansy arched one well-manicured eyebrow at him. "Draco, darling, I am less than five seconds away from committing seppuku in the middle of this ballroom. If you do not-"

A movement from somewhere behind her caught Draco's eye, and he cut her off mid-sentence. "Pansy, my dear, I need you to hold that thought. I've an important matter to attend to." Without giving her a chance to respond, he leaned in and brushed his lips over her cheek.

"Do try and behave," he murmured against her skin before he straightened and strode off.

Her mouth was agape for a few seconds; how _dare_ that pointy bastard drag her to this… this pointless charade, and then he had the gall to_abandon_ her? Seething with a light fury, she moved to withdraw her wand from her clutch. She'd show her _former_ friend the meaning of _pain_.

Behind her, someone cleared their throat. "Hello, Pansy."

It was a voice she hadn't heard in several years; six years, in fact, but she could still remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday. Her hand stilled on her handbag, and she lifted her head, glassy eyes staring at a spot in front of her before she could murmur her reply.

"Hello, Ronald."

Her face was a pleasant, expressionless mask as she turned to face him, a few curly tendrils of black hair brushing against her cheek as she did. Despite the years, all the pain that had transpired between them, she still felt her heart speed up slightly as she laid eyes on her former lover for the first time since she'd been sent to prison.

He was taller, that was evident. He filled out the lines of his dress robes nicely; no longer was he scrawny and gangly. No, now the lines of angular muscles were evident beneath the tailored cloth. His hair- _red, as ever_- was a bit longer than she remembered, but his blue eyes were as clear as ever.

"I- I didn't expect to see you here," he said, finally breaking the long silence that had descended. "You look well."

"As do you," she replied shortly. From behind Ron, she could see Draco speaking with Daphne and Astoria. Every so often, he would glance over at her, and it became all too clear _why_ he'd left her.  
_I'm going to kill him_.

The orchestra switched tunes from a lively, upbeat melody to a more demure, appropriate waltz, and she was surprised when Ron extended his hand.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked.

She placed her hand in his before she had time to refuse, and with a small nod, she let him lead her out into the throng of dancers. A few looks were thrown their way, for they did make a rather odd couple- best friend of the Boy Who Lived and a convicted war criminal- but neither of them paid any heed.

Sometime in the years that had passed, Ronald had learned to dance. He effortlessly led her around the dance floor, taking great care to avoid treading on her navy dress. The last time he'd held her in his arms like this, they'd been sixteen and dancing around the Astronomy Tower. She'd charmed the wireless to play classical music, and he'd charmed her with his utter inability to master three-fourth time.

"You learned to dance," she stated as he twirled her under his arm, pulling her back into his body with ease.  
It was subtle, but a soft red tinged the edge of his ears- a sure sign of nerves. "I had to," he admitted. "Hermione made me."

Pansy bristled at the mention of the Mudblood's name. She had read about their relationship in the _Daily Prophet_, of course, but hearing her former lover speak of the woman was another thing entirely. "She made you?"

"Erm, yes?" His voice cracked at the end, and Pansy knew what was coming before he was able to get the words out of his mouth. "We're… we're getting married."

She felt as if she'd had the wind knocked out of her, and she froze, mid-step. _Married_. He was marrying that _horrid_ Granger. "Married," she echoed softly, politely.

Ron had the decency to look sheepish. "At the end of August," he explained softly, his voice low so that they wouldn't be overheard by the other gala guests. "After you… left-"

"I wasn't on a spa holiday in Baden-Baden, Ronald," Pansy hissed, head snapping back so that she could look at him. "I was in _Azkaban_, and your precious best friend put me there!"

"I waited for you," he replied just as passionately, stepping closer to her. "I knew when you were released, and I waited for you for a _year_. You never came."

"_I_ never came?" she asked incredulously. "What the hell would you have had me say? Poor, pitiful Pansy Parkinson comes _crawling_ back so that you could play the hero and 'rehabilitate' me, is that what you were hoping for?"

His expression was confused, and he stuttered as he said, "Pansy, no, that's not-"

"Why did you choose _her_?" she whispered, her voice heated. "Why _her_?" _Don't choose her; choose__**me**__._

One hand reached up to cup her cheek, and he said softly, "I-"

"Is everything alright?"

At the sound of Granger's voice, Ron's hand dropped as if he'd been burnt, and he took a step back from her. His hand immediately found hers, and he managed a small smile for the Mudblood. "Everything's fine, Mione."

Everything was _not_ fine, though. Fixing Ron with one final appraising look, Pansy steeled her heart and let her gaze slide over to his fiancée. Though she wanted to do nothing more than rip the woman's eyes out with her perfectly manicured fingernails, she resisted the temptation.

With a sniff, Pansy glanced at Granger's dress and said icily, "Yellow makes you look jaundiced."

As she turned to leave, she could hear the Mudblood's little gasp of disbelief before she turned on Ron- _"Why were you dancing with__**her**__?"_- but Pansy didn't care. The crowd, all too aware of their little scene, parted like the Red Sea before her as her heels clicked over the marble floor.

She found Draco lounging in a shadowy alcove, sipping a glass of champagne.

"You knew," she said immediately. "That was why you made me come tonight."

"Yes," he said simply, "to both."

"_Why_?"

Draco set his glass down on a nearby table and reached out to take her hand. "Because you needed to know," he replied. "For years, I've watched you turn down invitations to numerous social engagements for fear of running into the Weasel. He doesn't care about you, Pansy. I don't think he ever did."

The sharp _CRACK!_ echoed across the room as Pansy's palm connected with Draco's cheek. A red hot fury was running through her veins, and her hand was trembling as she yanked it out of his grasp.

"I _loved_ him," she choked out, blue eyes blazing with anger, "and he loved me."

Her friend's grey eyes were emotionless, almost cold as he turned his face to look at her. The bright red print of her hand was a stark contrast to his pale skin, and the sight of it sent a surge of satisfaction through her.

"If he loved you, would he still marry Granger?"

Pansy took another step back, withdrawing her wand as she blinked back the hot tears that had sprung to her eyes. Not here, not now; she wouldn't give these people the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"Go to hell, Draco Malfoy," she whispered before she Disapperated.


End file.
